


Wake Me When it's Over

by Remington



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, I Would Die For Amelie Guillard, Pre Relationship, a "how they met!" scenario, final pam voice: i will take a hammer and FIX the canon, gerard is kind of a fuckboy, idk how to use french accents, pre-widowmaker but not pre overwatch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remington/pseuds/Remington
Summary: Before there was Widowmaker, there was Amelie and Gerard Lacroix. Before them, there was Amelie Guillard - world renowned dancer and esteemed socialite. The world was in her fingertips. What was there that a beautiful, talented, smart mouthed young lady couldn't accomplish?A kidnapping attempt throws her into the path of one Gerard Lacroix - furiously charming Overwatch agent and current darling of the military media. He's everything that drives her crazy; gorgeous, well spoken, athletic, intelligent, and most of all, cocky as can be about it. Amelie has never met such a frustrating man in her life. It's clear the best idea for her is to stay far, far away at all times . . .Which is kind of hard to do, because he's just become her bodyguard.





	1. First Impressions Can Always be Improved

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys - I realize I may get details wrong from time to time, so feel free to correct me if I do! Thanks for reading!

"Oh, you should wear the white. Mme Devoir loves the white."  
  
"And Mme Cheveau hates the white."  
  
"Oh, that's true . . ." the assistant, a permanently nervous redhead born with worry lines, chewed on her pencil. "But they both love green, so perhaps if it was paired with-"  
  
"Tabby," Amelie turned on the stool of her vanity. She rose a brow. "I can think of someone vastly more important to impress with my outfit."  
  
Tabby stiffened in fear of whichever important client she'd forgotten. Her thin lips pursed. "O-oh, ah, is it perhaps-"  
  
"Me."  
  
Only a short silence followed, then filled with the slight, girlish laugh of both. Amelie watched the relief sag down Tabby's shoulders, and felt a warm smile grow in return. Tabitha nodded and ran a hand through her hair. As much as Amelie wanted to chastise her for floundering, she knew the pressure must have been intense - dressing an internationally famed ballerina for a social gala on par with a coronation? The combined drama of intentionally unintentional color language paired with which bureaucrat to schmooze for which benefits by wearing which dress that pleased which wife - god, it was absolutely ridiculous.  
  
Tabby was a nice girl. A smart girl, too. She didn't suck up to Amelie like the last assistants, but she still gave her respect. In this world of fake faces and even faker love, that was all she could ask for.  
  
"Do you . . . think it's going to be that important?" Tabby mumbled, tugging at her collar. Her eyes turned up to Amelie, who stood a good three inches above her. "The dress, I mean. I just- this is important for you, Amelie." Earnestly, Tabby smiled. "You've gotten so far."  
  
"Cherie," Amelie said with a chuckle, "I'm a Guillard. It takes a lot to pull me off the stage."  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Chateau Contemparte was massive. Almost gaudily gilded, Amelie thought. Rococo embellishments on the windows, marbled floors with patterns so ostentatious it turned her stomach, and a perfumed air thick enough to choke were all ingredients for any gala. The only thing that set this above others was the stench of entitlement, and boy, was it rank.  
  
Tabby had kept count - so far, twelve compliments per thirty minutes on her dress. Three less than the average at the last gala, two more than at the one before that. Neither Mme Devoir nor Mme Cheveau had yet to make their remarks. Amelie had escaped to the dessert cart to avoid Tabby's near frantic mumbling about "the green, damn it all, she should have worn the green". In the sweet recluse of overly rich cheesecake and fondue fountains, she found her comfort in the form of chocolate strawberries. Her trainer would have smacked them from her hands in an instant, so by habit, she scarfed them down with the haste of a ravenous hyena. A very dignified image. Never question what an underfed, starving ballerina would do in a time of need.  
  
"Excuse- um, excuse me," came a nervous mumble, around three diplomats to her left, "Have you seen Amelie Guillard? Tall, impossibly beautiful, neck longer than the Tour de France?"  
  
Shit. Tabby.  
  
Strawberries in tow, Amelie escaped into anonymity as much as a world famous ballerina could. Damn that plucky little thing - she thought she could distract her by asking for an update on which wine Mme Devoir preferred her to drink. Who would have thought there would be a quick answer to anything in Parisian social politics?  
  
She just wanted some time to herself. Time enough to scarf down approximately seven more strawberries.  
  
But who could she count to hide her? That was Sir Downey - no, too gossipy. Would give away her position with a chortle and loud propsition for a dance. There was Mme Roberts - one whiff of her perfume had Amelie wheeling around to the right. Lord Redley, Miss Avershire, Count Sen- there was nowhere to go! Wasn't there any socialite down to Earth enough to grant her a chocolate based refuge? No, Amelie was thinking too big - she needed someone unknown, fresh meat, who commanded no attention. And just where would she find that in a ballroom full of the most attention hungry public figures known to France?  
  
"Jack," hissed a woman's voice, "Honestly, look a little more alive. We're lucky to be here."  
  
"Oh, pardon me," a man responded, sarcastically, "I didn't know I was supposed to feel blessed about not receiving poison training for thirty pounds of perfume."  
  
"And you think I like it any more? I feel like they should include gas masks in the goodie bags."  
  
Perfect.  
  
Effortlessly, Amelie's slender body wound around plain tuxes and sequins, snaking its way in between the owners of the conversation - a woman, around 40-something, along with two men who looked equally as thrilled to be there. One of them was the very image of military discipline, right down to the expertly cropped blonde hair and chiseled jaw, while the other, notably more relaxed but nowhere near more thrilled, ran a hand through unfixed curls. None of them looked polished enough to warrant attention, which was exactly what she was looking for.  
  
"Pardon me," Amelie purred. They broke from their conversation with animal like intensity. She gulped. "Perhaps introductions are to be in order. You are new to this crowd, yes?"  
  
The most diplomatic seemed to be the woman. Her smile was practiced, but still warm, crooked at the edges with dimples in her cheeks. Amelie thought she reminded her of her mother. "Are we that obvious? Forgive these two bozos. Wrangling some front-line dogs into suits and giving them champagne instead of whiskey isn't always a recipe for success." Her hand flipped back her long, dark hair and extended in front. Amelie noticed, immediately, the callouses on her fingers. Specifically, between her thumb and pointer, like she held something heavy regularly. She extended her own soft fingers and shook it firmly. The woman seemed to appreciate that.  
  
"Ana Amari," she greeted. Her head jerked back to the two "bozos". "Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes."  
  
Amelie blinked. Then, it hit her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "You are that, that new organization - Overwatch, is it?"  
  
"Ah, we're famous now," Ana chuckled. "I feel flattered that Miss Guillard knows about our little team."  
  
"And you know about me, it seems, so it's only fair." Amelie's smile stretched wider. "Pardon the rudeness, but for such a new group, ah . . . "  
  
"Does our invitation seem undeserved?" For a split second, Ana's eyes glinted dangerously. Amelie could picture a snake behind them, its' grace just as dangerous as its' bite. Her mouth went dry. Then, just as suddenly, Ana laughed behind her hand. "Oh, we know. Don't worry, dear. Frankly, the only reason we're here is because of-"  
  
"Ana, darling, could you please stop running off?" Her concentration was broken to another voice, emerging with a chest clad in a white tuxedo and a head of dark, expertly styled hair. "Just because I'm the only one with a sense of social graces doesn't mean I need to do it myself." A cocky grin was flashed at Ana's scoff.  
  
"This isn't the battlefield, Gerard. How terrible it must be to be trapped with all of those beautiful men and women. Truly, you deserve a promotion." Ana seemed lost in their banter before suddenly remembering that Amelie existed. With a cough, she gestured to the ballerina, and then to her companion. "Ah, as I was saying. Because of this one, right here. Miss Guillard, I'd like to introduce Gerard Lacroix."  
  
Oh. Him.  
  
One look told Amelie that no newspaper was ever going to do this man credit. She'd seen handsome men, beautiful men, men who looked sculpted by God - and he was none of that. That wasn't to say he was ugly. It was only that Amelie was not a gifted enough linguist, despite speaking three languages, to accurately describe his appeal. His jaw was so square she wondered if it was a prerequisite for joining the military, judging by his company. The poetry in his face was grandiose, for sure - verbs in the form of jutting cheekbones and metaphors as smooth and polished as his olive skin. There was a rhythm to his face, the way he moved, looked at her, like every aspect of him was curated to create, possibly, the most attractive person she'd ever met. For once, Amelie Guillard, one of the smartest mouths this side of French nobility, was well and truly starstruck.  
  
" . . . very nice to meet you."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Oh, he'd been talking. Was she honestly staring while he was talking? Like some sort of crushing teenager? Who was she? What made it worse was that Gerard seemed to know, if that morphing glint in his dark eyes was any indication. A subtle thing, really. All he did was twitch his lips a certain way, tilt his head - but Amelie felt the insinuation like a brick to the chest. Oh, yeah. He knew.  
  
"I was saying, Miss Guillard," he said, "It's very nice to meet you. I've never met a ballerina before."  
  
It was funny how, in his voice, "I've never met a ballerina before" translated to "I've never met a ballerina who just stared at me like an infatuated high-schooler for five straight seconds". Truly a mystery to linguists everywhere. With a suppressed grumble, Amelie smiled back, raising herself straighter in challenge.  
  
"Quite nice to meet you too, Mister Lacroix. I would say likewise but, as you see - I appear to have met Overwatch agents before you." Okay, so, slightly snarky. But appreciated, if Ana's suppressed snicker was anything to go by. Gerard seemed to falter, but recovered just as fast. Amelie wondered if it was wise to challenge a soldier, but she reminded herself that in a battle of wits, she was a hardened veteran.  
  
"Well then," Gerard's fingers flirted with the stem of his champagne glass, "Unless you've already told my compatriots, I would very much like to know the esteemed Miss Guillard's interest in our little group." As if he knew how charming he was, he smoothed a finger absentmindedly along the hairs of his mustache. Just a little flick, and then whatever imaginary hair that was out of place was quickly righted. "After all, I wouldn't place us as companions of choice, if your articles are anything to go by. Flatter us with an explanation?"  
  
Amelie felt her voice catch. A military operative, she had to remind herself. It was normal for them to research people. He probably had similarly creepy amounts of information on everyone here. "Ah, you are too perceptive, Monsieur. Honestly, I like to escape from the, ah, regulars of events such as these. It does not matter how high in the social order you are - there is always a limit to how much perfume one can take." She tilted her head, the weight of her long ponytail drooping about her waist. "Is it so terrible that I enjoy a variety of company?"  
  
"No, of course not," Gerard said, "I assume your dessert choice doesn't enjoy nearly as much variety - do ballerinas normally eat that many strawberries?"  
  
Amelie had nearly forgotten. Her cheeks colored as she made an effort to, somehow, hide the bowl in her hands without actually hiding it. Damn agent. Did he honestly have to point that out? So what if she liked her desserts? Damn, she couldn't even get him back - there was no witty comment to be made about a near empty glass of champagne. Amelie wasn't necessarily sure what was getting to her, exactly - the fact that he was ignoring every social rule practically embedded in her DNA? How irritatingly handsome his mug was when he joked about her dessert count? How she felt she had to compete for absolutely no reason at all? Regardless, she flashed a tight smile and a warning in her eyes. Her fingers quickly seized the leaves and popped a strawberry into her mouth. Swiss chocolate melted on her tongue, mixing with juices like aphrodisiac. Gerard held her gaze the entire time, even after she swallowed - and he gulped too, like a mirror image. Huh. So he was still a man after all.  
  
"This one does," she said. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I believe I need a break in air that's not jasmine perfume."  
  
\----------------------------------------------  
  
Muffled voices giggled and flirted behind her. Amelie plopped her lips off the last of her strawberries in satisfaction. Oh, finally. Her appetite was in danger of disappearance if she had stayed in there any longer. Delicately, Amelie folded her arms underneath her. Her lean body folded lightly over the balcony. A greeting of the cold night air was all she needed to breathe in, breathe out, and remind herself that she worked for this. She'd earned the right to wait out an expensive party on the balcony while relapsing in chocolate strawberries.  
  
Nobility was strange. Amelie liked to consider herself, her family, not one of "those" nobles - extravagantly wealthy, perhaps. Ridiculously large mansion - well, okay. But she had never agreed with the entitlement, the obsession with power and looks and graces like the others. Her rise to the top was due in no part to her family. She wanted to tell herself that. It was because of her. Her skill, her talent, her work ethic. And maybe that was a selfish way of looking at things. Maybe she was selfish. It was so hard to differentiate between the pride that came with privilege and the one borne from survival. Was Amelie a mix of both? Did she even deserve her invitation?  
  
Oh, now that was a load of bullshit, she told herself. Nobody in that party - no, not even handsome Gerard and his Overwatch friends - deserved to be in there. Galas like that were a celebration of people getting things they didn't deserve. Amelie learned long ago that the rich and famous just called that "self-made".  
  
And like every other media darling, Amelie longed to be /different/. Down to Earth, real, fun, always saying what was on her mind. She wanted to bring a new appreciation to ballet, to eliminate the gate-keeping. It didn't start as an art for the elite. There was no reason it had to continue that way. Naively, she thought she could use her platform to promote that. And everyone would agree! Gates to the world of dance would spew open, welcoming every little girl and boy with a dream in one giant, happy ceremony. Maybe she'd been a little overzealous on that part. But look at her now - not only had she failed (not achieved yet, she reminded herself), but she couldn't even enjoy the luxuries that gated world was supposed to offer. What did she really want? What was Amelie Guillard meant to give the world?  
  
A scream and shattering of glass interrupted her question. She whirled, just in time to spot rows of black figures roping in from the upper windows. A glance from the balcony showed the rest of them still climbing up like black little ants. Heart seizing in her chest, Amelie pressed further against the railing. From inside, she could see a larger agent toss down something in his large palm, and then the ballroom was filled with smoke. The fumbling crowd became nothing more than ambiguous shapes underneath the fog. God, what was she supposed to do? She couldn't rush in. She was trapped here until the smoke cleared. She didn't even dare open the doors for-  
  
"Hey there, princess," came a growl in her ear. Amelie felt a hand seize around her throat. "You'll make some good ransom, that's for sure. I think you're invited to our little VIP area - you, and only you. I wonder what they'll pay to get you back out?"  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Once the sack was off her head Amelie, sure enough, was in what looked to be an emergency bunker. Cold, unfeeling, but well stocked. Walls thick enough to block most cell phone reception. An expensive camera was pointed directly at her, glaring uncaringly with its glassy, unfeeling stare. Amelie wanted to shrink beneath it. She wanted to retreat into the pain of the rope burns on her wrists. Something in her, however, deep down, forced her chest out and shoulders back. One thing was for sure - she wouldn't let the world see Amelie Guillard as a coward.  
  
"And the star's awake!" a man said from behind the camera. His shadowed figure was massive. Shoulders broader than an elephant, hulking impossibly, almost a contrast to his elegant Nigerian accent. This was no dumb thug. Intelligence dripped off every syllable. Amelie felt herself sneer.  
  
"Forgive me, but these aren't ideal working conditions," she muttered. Animalistic, the glare in her eyes. Her captor seemed to appreciate that, even laughing. Might have been charming, in another situation.  
  
"They always said you were a diva. That's good! Perhaps we can put those dramatics to good use." One snap had his goons raising the camera and zooming to frame her face. The light increased and made her squint. "How about you tell everyone watching right now how desperate you are to return home, little dancer. I am sure you're well missed. Beautiful, talented woman like you? Oh, they'll pay a hefty price to get that back, indeed."  
  
Amelie smirked. "First I am a diva, and then I'm well loved? Could somebody get me a copy of the script? I think a line is off." Judging by the body language of the shadow's shoulders, that struck a nerve. Amelie licked her lips, tasting the residue of strawberry. "I'm not always a primadonna, you know. How about my co-star shows his face?"  
  
"And she thinks she can make requests. Enrique?"  
  
No time to process before a hand smacked clean across her cheek. Amelie yelped. Tears stung the corner of her eyes.  
  
"The face of a lack of progress." Her captor tutted his tongue, then leaned closer to the camera. "If you want your meek little girl back, the ransom is fifteen million, delivered to the base. It will increase by two million for every hour that you fail to pay. By tomorrow afternoon? Price won't be a concern." The deadly lilt in his tone sent chills down her spine. Amelie suddenly felt an urge to go, move, pull, do something to get out - which only manifested in the form of frankly pathetic struggling. Her chest grew tight. "The clock starts now."  
  
Damn it all. As if it would help, Amelie shot a seething glare at the camera and huffed. Her jaw clenched tight. It was obvious they'd been smart - no geographically identifying marks were behind her, nor did she know exactly how they got there. It was nearly impossible to infer her location. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed off - if they really wanted money, there should have been at least some clue. The man even said they'd kill her, regardless of reward, if nobody came in time. Oh, god, that was terrifying. Force it out of your mind, Guillard. You weren't dying today - or tomorrow.  
  
They didn't want to kill her, or they would have done that already. Her death wasn't the main objective. The money wasn't, either. In fact, it seemed like a distraction. Fifteen million? Honestly, did he really think she was only worth that much?  
  
That left one more option - they didn't want money. They didn't want a quick death. The kidnapping, paired with the camera, the televised livestream of terror . . . no. This was about humiliation.  
  
But of whom? Was there any point to embarrassing a random rescuer or her family, if they chose to pay? A boastful organization like this didn't need ego stroking. The man in front of her made clear proof of that. Which meant that there had to be someone specific. This was a hunch, but . . .  
  
"Can I . . . please send a message to my family?" she asked softly, feigning submission. A moment of mumbled discussion amongst the man and his goons, and then he nodded, waving his hand for the camera to re-center. Amelie gulped. "Mama, Papa . . . Please don't worry about me. It's all going to be okay." Ruse as it was, her words were sincere. "I am in good hands. Rescue is on the way."  
  
"Rescue from whom?" The man asked. Amelie chuckled.  
  
"Overwatch, who else?" The tense in his shoulders told her everything. That's what this was about. "Ah, so this is about them, is it? A pity, I honestly had you pegged for smarter than that. All of this trouble to pretend you can outrun a force like that?"  
  
"Pretending is what you do, my dear, but not me." He spoke evenly, but his tone was short. Stilted. "We seek to eliminate any barriers to the progress of humanity. Overwatch is weak, and allows weakness to spread like a disease. They are not strong enough to do what you say." Somebody was passionate. Whatever this guy's deal with strength and weakness was, Amelie was just glad it was giving her material. She'd done enough improv acting on reality shows to lead someone on.  
  
"I would beg to disagree. You're smart, and smart people cower. Which is what we're doing right now. No location for the money drop off? Not even a wiring address? You don't want me for the ransom." Her eyes darkened. "I can personally give the endorsement of a Guillard that the people of Overwatch I've met are fair, fine, and hard working. A rat like you stinks enough to leave a trail anywhere. They're going to find you, and you will never humiliate them like you so want." A perfect image of the haughty heiress, Amelie's nose tilted up. "I would never be scared by you, so why should they?"  
  
"Would never be scared?" Oh, he was mad now. Clipped, cocky as he could manage. "Spare me. You were whimpering the entire ride back."  
  
"Bringing lies and kidnapping to the table?" She laughed. "And how long was this whimpering you've imagined? Are you the fantastical type, sir?"  
  
"I would never imagine thirty minutes of you- wait." Sudden clarity. A pause of understanding, outlined clearly by Amelie's growing smirk. One more beat, probably to process the humiliation, and then he was cursing, driving a fist into the camera. It shattered almost comically. Oh, this might have been a bad idea - just how strong was he?  
  
"Very, very smart, girl," he growled. Amelie did her best to sit still. That huge, lurking figure rose up and, with two terrifying steps towards her, draped himself in the harsh fluorescent lighting above her chair. His dark skin, smooth like brown marble, rippled over developed muscles. His face was equally chiseled, elegantly intelligent, and in this moment, very, very mad. He leaned his wide frame over her chair, cocooning her in warmth, intimidation, and pride. Amelie leaned back despite herself. The eyes of that man weren't the eyes of a beast, no - they were the eyes of something above humanity that was doing all it could to pull the rest of the race up with it. The hardest part, in this moment, was deciding if that was a noble goal or not. "Getting me to admit the time of travel to our location. That is not something that usually happens, I will have you know." His voice could have been a purr if she didn't swear she saw fangs. "You're clever. Much more clever than I expected a little heiress to be. This is an offer I do not make lightly, but . . ." One finger reached up, cupping her chin. "We could make you smarter. Your connections, our tech, the drive between us . . . there are possibilities." He wasn't coddling her. He wasn't seducing her. No, this was all business - and he seemed to know his way around a proposal.  
  
"I am clever," Amelie whispered. She felt her upper lip curl. "Which is why I would never work for _terrorists_."  
  
Her answer was another sharp smack to the face. He growled in disgust and rose off her, waving for another goon to dump the bag over her head. Amelie struggled against it, but as she was eventually recovered in darkness, all she could hear was that haunting accent again:  
  
"If you think terror is what we seek, then I advise looking again. Your heroes are not what they seem."  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
  
An hour. It had been approximately one hour since they went off the air, and Amelie still had a bag over her head.  
  
She'd really fucked herself with this one. At least she'd gotten some information out - though it was increasingly likely they'd kill her before the planned date anyways. Especially with that little _talk_ the man gave her earlier. Just thinking about it gave her chills-  
  
A thud to her right. Three more, a few grunts, and then there were fingers on her wrists, sawing and tugging at the ropes. Amelie didn't have time to process before the bag was ripped off her head and the glaring, rude lights snapped her back to reality. They haloed a head of dark hair, nearly ethereal with her blurred vision. As it sharpened, little details emerged - high cheekbones, glimmering eyes, a tiny, well groomed little mustache-  
  
"Gerard-mmph!" His hand smacked over her mouth. Gerard held a finger to his lips, ignoring her glower.  
  
"Thank you for that little tip, Cherie," he whispered. "Now, let's get you out of here, yes?"  
  
Briefly, she considered asking for a different agent to save her. Amelie settled for a roll of her eyes, small smile, and a nod.  
  
He'd really done a stellar job - every goon was cold on the floor. Amelie saw flashes of movement out of the corner of her eyes, heard other grunts of distress - but Gerard's body language hinted that they were probably allies. On the subject of his body - she knew she'd been tied up, but was it that necessary to hold his hands around her shoulders like that? They didn't feel bad, per se, no, warmth in palms like that could never feel bad, especially when it relaxed her muscles and-  
  
"Almost to the exit," Gerard whispered. He flashed her a wink. "How's this for first impressions?"  
  
"Let's wait until after we get away," Amelie said. "We still don't know if-"  
  
"I FOUND THEM! SIREN! SIREN! OVER HERE!" And just like that, their little moment was ruined by an overeager guard who fumbled for his rifle. Gerard moaned, reached for his pistol, and placed two bullets directly in his gut before yanking Amelie by the arm.  
  
"Time to run, Cherie," he called cheerfully. Amelie scoffed and yanked herself away. Before he could protest, she sprinted ahead, long, gazelle-like legs carrying her expertly.  
  
"I don't need to be tugged, "Cherie", thank you!" she called, beating her way around the corner. Gerard allowed himself a small snicker and followed. The two kept an even pace, darting around bushels of guards all fumbling for which route to pursue. They turned right - bad idea. Backtrack to the left - nope, equally worse. Two of the respective units prowled closer, rifles at the ready, and Amelie could already see one of them reaching for his intercom. She acted on instinct. Her hand seized her stiletto and shot it, nailing the poor guard between the eyes with six inches of Gucci's finest. In their shock, the guards faltered, leaving just enough time for Amelie to grab Gerard's pistol and fire three shots directly into the fire extinguishers mirrored on either side of the hallway. White gas covered both groups, potent and thick enough that the two of them darted through the confusion to another left turn, and there it was - the exit.  
  
One overly dramatic kick by Gerard, and she heard the sound of a helicopter - she'd never been so grateful to hear spinning blades in all her life. Gerard dramatically waved his hand, inciting her to go.  
  
"I do believe your rescue is complete."  
  
\----------------------------------------------------------  
  
"And you are sure you are not hurt anywhere else?" Ana said. This was the thirtieth minute of her fretting. Amelie was right - she really did remind her of her mother.  
  
"I am fine, Ana, believe me." Her smile reached her eyes. "Thanks to your organization."  
  
"And to your quick thinking!" Ana shook her head as she applied an ointment to her cheek. "Quite clever. More than I expected out of a ballerina."  
  
"I've been hearing that a lot, recently." Did people honestly expect her to be that vapid? She had to have a word with her PR agents. After Ana was (finally) done worrying, Amelie leaned back on the bench, watching the rest of the Overwatch recruits buzz about. They definitely looked a lot more formidable when they ran about like this - nameless faces in intimidating armor with even more intimidating weapons strapped to their hips. And to think Amelie had escaped to them, hours earlier, just so she could devour a forbidden snack. Fate had a funny way of smacking her in the face sometimes.  
  
Ana had left and she hadn't even noticed. Amelie must have really been out of it. She ran a hand over her face, already dreading Tabby's frantic apologies. The girl was already frayed enough when she didn't get a coffee order right - nearly losing her to an international terrorist organization? She might combust on the spot.  
  
"All patched up, I presume?" a smooth voice interjected. Amelie slid her fingers down her face to see Gerard, leaning over with his hands in his pockets, corner of his lips pulled high. He pursed them nonchalantly as he sat across from her. "Ana's probably already given her compliments - rare for a woman like her, I'll add - but I did want to thank you. That was . . . well. Very clever for a-"  
  
"Very clever for a ballerina. I get it." There must have been more snark in her voice than she meant for Gerard to look that taken aback. As always, though, he recovered fast and shrugged.  
  
"Mind reader and beautiful? I should have rescued you from a kidnapping sooner." That, combined with his waggling eyebrows, earned a gratuitous eye roll. Oh, but the brave warrior pressed on. "Tell me, Amelie - I saved your life, I can call you Amelie, yes? This might be an inopportune time, but if you're free, would you join me in-"  
  
"Monsieur Lacroix," Amelie tilted her head. "You saved my life. You rushed to my defense as soon as you were able, and even defended me with your body without a second thought. Words cannot express how much that means to me." She leaned forward, and Gerard did as well. Amelie purred. "You're a handsome, charismatic man, with plenty of confidence it seems, so please believe me when I say . . . " she leaned back, causing him to topple a bit unexpectedly, "You should have no problem finding other "free" girls than me. Saving a woman's life does not mean she owes you a date." She stood, adjusted her coat, and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. "My thanks, Monsieur. See you in the papers?"  
  
"I-" but then she was gone, already rehearsing what she'd say to Tabby in her mind.  
  
Maybe galas weren't so bad after all.


	2. Inside the Trojan Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie thought that party was the last she'd see (outside of a newspaper) of Gerard LaCroix. And now he's returned, glittering eyes and all - to tell her she's still in danger.

She always liked her coffee black. But it couldn’t be just _any_ coffee. For Amelie Guillard to drink common, run-of-the-mill, unsophisticated brew would be as drastic and unexpected as a swan plucking its own feathers before a Tuesday brunch. It just didn’t happen.

“Your cup of Monte Parle dark roast, Amelie,” came a voice to her right. A wrinkled old hand attached to it set down a steaming cup gently in front of her. Amelie smiled, tilting her reading glasses down from the bridge of her nose.

“Merci, Jacque,” she said softly. Jacque, with his kindly, weathered grin and signature crinkled eyes, simply nodded and folded his hands behind his back. Amelie responded by straightening the morning paper in her hand.

A beat of silence sat between them. She gave it a little cushion, a little room to dissipate, and when it didn’t, she glanced up from her paper again. Jacque’s expression hadn’t changed, save for a telltale little twinkle in his old, faded blue eyes. She relented and set the paper down.

“What is it?” she said, taking a sip. Brewed to perfection, every time. Without a sound, Amelie set the cup to its saucer and crossed her legs. Jacque simply shrugged, feigning nonchalance with a grace that _might_ have fooled anybody else – but alas, he worked in the Guillard employment. Analyzation was a hereditary trait.

“It is nothing, miss Amelie,” he chuckled. “I was just wondering, ah, if my lady would be interested in a small sight that greeted me as I brewed her coffee this morning.”

“Brevity is clearly a mistress that did you wrong, old friend,” Amelie said, though not without a smile. “Are you going to tell me about this sight, or must I fetch it myself?”

Jacque, clearly humored by her sarcasm, simply bowed his head with a near imperceptible tilt. “Though I am entirely committed to the personal growth of my lady and mistress, miss Amelie, I suppose I would not be too bothered to fetch the _extremely_ handsome gentleman currently loitering on our gate.”

“Ah, yes, that would be nice,” Amelie said, then suddenly slammed her paper down hard enough to make her coffee splash. “Wait. _How_ handsome?”

“Like the lovechild of an angel and a Harlequin novel, my lady.”

Amelie was out of her chair in a flash. Only one man could warrant _that_ high a compliment from the ever-judgmental Jacque – and if she was right, then she was _very_ curious as to why he was _here_.

* * *

So, maybe he’d gotten rejected.

Maybe he’d gotten rejected for the first time.

Maybe he’d gotten rejected, for the first time, by the first woman to make his gut clench like a cardboard compactor.

Gerard couldn’t decide if he was upset, confused, or both. Cupset? Upfused? Those combinations were as stupid as they sounded. He wasn’t blind. He was _well_ aware of how charming he was. It might have been an insult to the LaCroix eyesight if he said otherwise. And like any proper, charming gentleman, Gerard knew looks were not all there was to seduction – and when that seduction involved one Amelie Guillard, it apparently involved a hell of a lot more than that.

But _what else_ could he have _used_?

Gerard nearly considered asking Ana for time off for mental health. Oh, but he could already see the look on her face – one little twitch of her brows and he’d be back on bathroom duty like a rookie.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so playful with her. That comment about the strawberries – what he thought was charming, boyish teasing might have been taken as a legitimate comment about her weight. She _was_ a ballerina after all. But, as he later found out, she was most unlike what he’d been told about ballerinas before.

It might have not been so bad, had he time to recover. Some nice action on the field, maybe a few more Talon agents to thwart . . . ah, perfect stress relief. His fingers itched just thinking about it.

And then Ana, lovely and terrifying woman that she was, came to remind him that nothing was ever meant to be easy.

* * *

  _You want me to do what?”_

_“Oh, Gerard, don’t be so asinine,” Ana scoffed. Her hands went to her hips. “I know you heard me the first time. Don’t make me repeat myself.”_

_“Oh, I did indeed hear you, darling Ana,” Gerard mumbled, shifting uneasily in his chair. “I’m just curious – we are speaking English right now, yes? Not some strikingly similar language that might have a different nuance than what you just described?”_

_Ana looked less than impressed. Gerard felt like his shirt collar was a little bit too tight._

_“As I was_ saying _,” she continued, “We intercepted another message from Talon just yesterday. Whether or not they_ intended _for us to intercept it doesn’t matter. The point is, Amelie Guillard’s life is in jeopardy.”_

 _“As much of a shame as I consider that to be,” Gerard pleaded, “I’m not entirely sure why_ I _have to be her bodyguard. We have hundreds of other agents that would be_ thrilled _to guard her.” He resisted to add that they also had hundreds of other agents that hadn’t asked her on a date with all the social grace of a snotty, pre-teen schoolboy._

_Ever the psychic, Ana smirked. “Gerard, you wouldn’t be letting your personal shame of rejection compromise your abilities as an agent, would you?”_

_And there it was. Gerard bristled, knowing her game better than the thoughts in his own head, and somehow still unable to keep from playing it. “ . . . No, of course not, Ana.”_

_“Of course not! I was only pulling your leg, you know. Oh, look at you, all red and flustered.” If she were any more giddy she might have pinched his cheek. Was this woman a permanent grandmother? “You’re one of our best, Gerard. And Amelie Guillard is a high-profile target. They’re going to send as bloodthirsty as they’ve got for her, for the sake of pride if nothing else.” The pen she’d been twirling suddenly stopped and Ana looked solemn. “We cannot_ afford _to take personal matters into consideration.”_

_And so it was done. Gerard halfway wondered what the point of bringing him in here at all was, but Ana was a woman of formality if nothing else. He sighed._

_“I understand. I’ll leave for Chateau Guillard tomorrow.”_

* * *

 And now, here he was, tapping his foot outside the Guillard gate. He’d buzzed. He’d buzzed about four times. In a minute. Nobody ever kept a LaCroix waiting. Nobody _especially_ ever kept _Gerard_ LaCroix waiting.

Behind him, behind the gate, he heard the tapping of feet, the shuffling of fabric. Gerard sighed and pivoted, running a hand across his dark hair. “ _Finally_ , now if you would please take me to-“

“To where?”

Oh. Amelie Guillard stood in front of him, reading glasses across her nose. Her usual makeup wasn’t there to accentuate her eyes, but Gerard almost found that _worse_ – somehow, that Guillard blue was even more piercing when it wasn’t behind smoldering eyeliner. For the second time that week, he felt his shirt collar oppressing him through cashmere and 10% polyester. Maybe his neck was growing.

“This is a surprise,” Amelie continued, tilting her head. Gerard chuckled, smoothing a finger across his mustache. The mustache always saved him.

“Well, my dear, if everything I did was predictable, I wouldn’t be a LaCroix,” he purred. Amelie seemed to appreciate that, if for nothing other than his wit. No trace of red dotted her cheeks. Damn. Why did he still feel like he needed to compete?

Amelie regarded him for a few moments. She slowly unfolded her arms, removed her glasses and hooked them on the collar of her blouse. “I am currently predicting you won’t get to your point for being here before the next millennium. Care to be a LaCroix now?”

Well, if he wasn’t taken with her beauty . . . Goodness gracious. Gerard did a marvelous job, he thought, of appearing unaffected. “Certainly. Ah, but could we discuss this in a place a little less . . . public?” he shrugged. “Your gate is very beautiful, madame, but I confess I am a little tired of talking to it.”

“. . . I suppose so.” Amelie chuckled, reached her finger up, and buzzed a small button on the side of the gate. Slowly, the massive iron bars opened, and in he stepped.

* * *

 Amelie lead Gerard through the halls of Chateau Guillard, knowing he most likely wasn’t gawking at the architecture like most of her other guests. Any proper socialite would know the LaCroix’s prized, precious first son. Their wealth made her look like comfortable middle-class. That didn’t come from jealousy – it might have, had she been one of her more conniving cousins, but Amelie was content. Who wouldn’t be?

“Is this private enough for you, Monsieur?” she said once they’d reached the study. Before Gerard could answer, Amelie gently pulled the French doors closed, waltzed around to the desk, and plopped on top. One long, agile leg crossed over the other.

God, he was still so irritatingly handsome. In the back of her mind, Amelie had hoped, halfway, that her minor infatuation had been a side effect of the excessive amounts of jasmine perfume, or perhaps bad strawberries, but nope – it seemed his cheekbones were destined to torment her another day.

“Ah, yes,” Gerard said, taking a more traditional seat in the chair across the desk. “This will do.” The charm and wit she’d seen at the party seemed to have traded themselves for something almost . . . solemn. Something looked like it was eating at his mind. Amelie didn’t press.. “Miss Guillard, there are two things I would like to say.”

“So say them.”

Gerard smirked, only slightly. “Firstly, my apologies for my . . . ah, I believe “bumbling” would be the best description of that attempt at asking you to dinner. You were right. I should not have taken advantage of a rescue situation to flirt with you.”

Amelie knew by now the telltale signs of bullshit. Especially when it came to men. They would suddenly get flowery, and the smart ones would look even a bit shy, hiding their faces behind their knuckles or averting their eyes right over her shoulder. Their apologies always came out soft, non-threatening. But most of all, they always circled back around to themselves. Conniving her into giving them a second chance. “The atmosphere wasn’t right” or “I was being rude, let me try again?”

But Gerard . . . wasn’t doing that. His eye contact had never wavered. And, as Amelie waited for a follow-up, some tacked-on request for her to rethink his proposal that never came, she felt . . . relieved. Just a little bit. So, she blinked, and settled for a nod.

“I appreciate that, Monsieur LaCroix,” she said softly. “Truthfully, it was quite flattering. Your only fault might be your spectacularly bad timing.” At this, they both snickered softly. The tension in the room eased. After their short laugh, Gerard sighed, and rubbed his fingers to the skin on the back of his neck. Amelie tilted her head. “ . . . There’s still something you want to say.”

“Yes.” Gerard shifted in his seat. “Ah, please do not be alarmed by this, Miss Guillard, as I _assure_ you it is under control, but the reason I am here is because-“

“Is it Talon?”

The severity and suddenness at which she asked made Gerard jump in his seat. He quickly held up his hands. “Yes, but there is no need to be _afraid_ , Miss Guillard, because I’ve been sent to-“

“Afraid?” Amelie’s cheeks split in a grin. She leaned in over the desk. “Monsieur, I do believe you forgot that stiletto-based lobotomy I performed at our /last/ encounter. I am not afraid, I am _excited_!”

“You’re- I’m sorry, what now?” Gerard blanched. Amelie leaped off the table.

“Excited! That was the most fun I’ve had in _ages_ that wasn’t on the stage! And you’re saying they’re still coming? Oh, my goodness, are they coming _now_?” Amelie bit her lip. “How do I look? I wonder if that Nigerian man will still-“

“My god, this was not the reaction I was expecting,” Gerard muttered, then held up a hand, “No, no, Miss Guillard, they’re not coming – well not right _now_ I suppose – but what I am _trying_ to say is-“

“You know, I really was proud of myself for that little trick I pulled on him, oh you should have seen the _look_ on his _face_!”

“Yes, but-“

“Do you think they’ll have more men this time? Oh my, I wonder if Jacque can fight?”

“For pity’s sake could a man get a blasted sentence out?” Gerard finally snapped. Amelie quieted, immediately, but that giddy spark was still ever present. Gerard pinched his temple between his fingers and heaved one long, elegant sigh. “Relieved as I am that you’re apparently _not_ terrified and slightly terrified of that myself, I did not come here to instruct you on some one-ballerina guerilla unit.” His hands found his pockets. “Before you cut me off _again_ , I came here to tell you I’ve been assigned as a guard until the threat is neutralized.”

Amelie stared blankly. She rose a brow, judging Gerard’s impatient but calm expression, and found he wasn’t joking. He had to be joking. Him? Why him? It wasn’t because of doubt of his fighting skills, no – Amelie had witnessed that firsthand – but . . . him? They really thought giving her the world’s most potent set of jawlines was a good idea?

“ . . . Typically, this is where you respond,” Gerard said under his breath, “But believe me, I’m all for social innovation.”

“Oh!” Amelie spluttered. “Oh. Um. Yes. I see.”

A beat between them, and then Gerard seemed to get it, his own eyes lighting up in recognition. It was just a small change – a little slouch in his posture, sideways curve to his thin lips, but Amelie saw it. She saw that twinkle, that tilt of his head. He was _smug_.

Gerard cocked his brow. “There isn’t a problem, is there, Miss Guillard?”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, I see! Wonderful. You just looked so, well, nervous for a second, and that _surely_ couldn’t have been because of Talon, seeing as you were out for blood not three minutes ago. So the only option left would be . . .” letting it trail, Gerard walked a little closer. Not enough to impose or even _pretend_ to, but enough to remind her. Amelie felt her cheeks heat. “But, alas, you are a Guillard and, as you said, are not interested in a man just because he saved your life. Extremely commendable, mademoiselle.”

Oh, oh this _ass._ Did he have to be so godforsaken smug about it all? Amelie tried to defend herself but felt her words dry up faster than a birdbath in Arizona. And then Gerard stuck out his hand. She slowly, with what little pride she had, grabbed it to shake, but he flipped her palm to its back and brought up her knuckles to his lips, placing the slightest kiss on her pale skin. Amelie forgot how to breathe for a few seconds.

“There is another guard that will be posted outside the manor for tonight,” he said softly, “But I will return in the morning. I look forward to seeing you, Amelie Guillard.”

And as he left, Amelie brought that hand back up to her chest.

This was going to be one hell of a ride.

* * *

  _TALON HEADQUARTERS_

_4:45 P.M._

Humiliation was a bitter drink. It had a flavor that stuck in the mouth long after it had been washed down, and had he ever tried. It was made worse that he was embarrassed not even by Overwatch, not by the government, but by some measly, conniving, unimportant little _woman_.

The basis of gender had nothing to do with it. Akande had seen women take down ex-green berets with a flick of their thumb. It was the fact that it was an _untrained_ woman with more fire and fight in her eyes than he’d seen in a charging bull that mortified him in the one moment the entire world could see.

Yes. A bitter drink indeed.

But, despite popular opinion, Akande was not a man of revenge. Revenge was a method of beasts. A lion wanted revenge for the murder of his cubs – a bear wanted revenge for another creature stealing her fish. Akande did not want revenge. He wanted _change_.

“Incoming message for codename Doomfist. Please receive the message.”

With more annoyance than necessary Akande slammed his palm on the receiver of his desk. The holo-screen lit up, illuminating his features with cool blue and white. He frowned at the face on the other end.

“You,” he growled, “I thought I told you not to bother me personally.”

“You did. I just didn’t listen.” Their mask, plain white without even the semblance of a face save for a cross on the center, tilted. Their voice was obstructed electronically as well. Even Akande’s research hadn’t been able to trace it back to a source. “Don’t look so grumpy. You really look prettier with a smile you know-“

“The point. Get to it.”

“Agh, fine, fine,” they waved their hand. “Target Guillard is now under the protection of Gerard LaCroix. We expected as much. Access to the target is a current negative – but you already know that. My reason for calling lies in LaCroix himself.”

Akande snorted. “We cannot neutralize LaCroix without a disproportionate loss on our side. I would not recommend underestimating him.”

“And I would agree with you,” his mystery partner said with a laugh, “Oh, I do wish we had those cheekbones on our side-“

“The. Point.”

“Your codename should’ve been Killjoy,” they murmured, “Ugh, _alright_. LaCroix is strong, like you said, which means an attack from outside would be utterly pointless. Which is why I propose a solution – operation Trojan.”

He did not miss the literary metaphor. Interest piqued despite his irritation, Akande slowly tilted his head. “You want to use Guillard to get to him. And what is the endgame result, should this succeed?”

“That is up to you,” they said softly, “Death, brainwashing, ransom – exciting but out of my jurisdiction. I just thought you might want to consider the possibility.”

Before he could _consider_ considering, the screen blanked and the connection was cut short. Akande grumbled behind his hand. The plan – it was brash, cliché, but promising. LaCroix was an asset useful in many forms. And with such a clear area of weakness in the form of a beautiful, popular woman – he hated to admit it, but it grew on him by the second.

Akande was not a man for revenge, he told himself again. But he was a man of change. And in this case, he thought, recalling Amelie’s smug, righteous face when she rejected his offer . . .

He was a man of _justice_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Finally back. I didn't get any reviews on my last chapter and that made me kind of sad - this is a project I'm really excited about, and as fun as it is to write, it's more fun when I hear back from you guys. Please tell me what you think!


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